


start again

by 2dsgirl



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F/M, Multi, Sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 08:00:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11287026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2dsgirl/pseuds/2dsgirl
Summary: sequel to forever-what if the one that got away came back?





	1. 01

Five years.

Five years since that night I thought you were mine again. Almost six since the day our eyes met across the gymnasium, the day our lives changed forever.

Five years since you screamed so loud I thought the neighbors would go deaf. Five years since you bit me so hard I still have the scar in the shape of your teeth on my hand (a strange comfort on some nights). Five years since I held you down in your doorway, a desperate and poor attempt at proving to you I'd changed. It all seems like a lifetime ago but at the same time as if it was just yesterday.

And here we are, five years later; you're sitting on another man's lap, his hand perched nicely on your thigh as he chats away with someone next to you two. The room is dark and smoky and I'm surprised I can even recognize you through the thick haze; the low sound of music drowns out any hope of me hearing your conversation. Our eyes haven't met yet but the red solo cup in my hand is shaking as if the entire earth is shifting beneath us, the keys hanging off the lanyard in my hand dropping to the floor. The clink catches your attention, drawing your eyes to me. It's a moment that never should have occurred in any timeline or universe or daydream, but the shiver that runs down your spine is visible and proof that we are both existing in the same room, the same town, the same continent, for the first time in five years.

Your expression reads pure shock for an impossibly long moment, and I wonder if the joint I smoked was laced with something else. You angle yourself toward the man you're sitting on, carefully keeping your eyes trained on me; he doesn't notice. I impulsively raise my left hand to my right, tracing the outline of your mouth with my fingers as your eyes remain on mine. It's an agonizing few seconds before he turns his head towards me, the dim light of the room catching on his glasses. You get off of him but sit down in the space he leaves as he walks towards me, crossing your legs. I'm tempted to pick up my keys and run but I'm already half drunk and far too stoned to be driving anywhere. I smile politely as the man's face comes into focus and is jarringly familiar.

"Sugawara!" He says as he pulls me into a typical dude embrace, the smell of booze and weed tinted with expensive cologne hitting me. "Long time no see!"

"Oikawa," I breathe, looking him up and down. A rival? A friend? He's hardly either, more of a distant memory than anything else. I can't help but feel a twinge of something that I can't quite put my finger on though. He's bigger than me, the fabric of his t-shirt taught over his muscular build; the glasses resting on the bridge of his nose make him look intelligent; he exudes confidence even though he's clearly hammered, wobbling where he stands in front of me. Our relationship in volleyball seems like nothing now that you're patiently waiting for him on the couch, every feeling I thought therapy would have fixed rearing its head.

"Yeah, it's been a while. How have things been?"

He talks about college and volleyball and playing internationally, and as he rambles on about himself I steal a glance at you, the look in your eyes calculated and devilish, and it takes everything in me not to push past him to you. I don't know what exactly I have to say to you despite imagining this exact scenario an infinite amount of times but something about your gravity strains against me like it always has.

"What about you, man? What are you up to these days?" Oikawa's voice pulls me away from you, and I vaguely remember that you two are apparently together now, the logistics of that boggling me as I try to keep it together.

"I actually do tattoos now," I hold out both my arms, dark ink decorating my skin. "I work at a lot of different-"

"That's so fucking cool dude!" He slaps a heavy hand on my upper arm as he interrupts me, nearly losing his balance at the force of the motion, grasping my bicep to steady himself. "You've gotta tattoo me, man. I bet my girl will want one too- (y/n)! Come over here!"

You stand up, your skin exposed in a strappy tank top and shorts. Your expression reads confidence and malice at the same time but your eyes betray you, looking me up and down in an almost panicked fashion, as if you were trying to gain the upper hand before I could.

"Hey, Koushi," You spit my name, venomous as it falls from your perfectly curved lips. "What's up, babe?"

You look at me as you say 'babe', placing a hand on Oikawa's chest while he snakes an arm around you. He looks back and forth between us, trying to establish the connection between us, queuing me in that I am not apart of your story that you've told him.

"How do you two..." He trails off, forgetting the thought before it can even form. "Nevermind. Babe, Sugawara does tattoos, look!"

He grabs my right arm, pulling me forward a bit with the motion. Your eyebrows raise as you scan the artwork, and as you silently look me up and down again I'm desperate to know if you approve, if you think I'm cool, if you think I'm a loser, if you think anything about me at all.

"I didn't do this one," I chuckle, trying to act as normal as possible. "But yeah, I do tattoos."

"Wow," your eyes narrow; you don't know what to say. "I didn't ever see that from you."

I give a flat lined smile, looking away from both of you, clawing for something to say to break the suffocating tension between us.

"Uh," I stutter, taking my phone out of my pocket. I pull up my Instagram, showing them the screen with slightly shaking hands. "This is all my work. I could give you my card if you ever wanna meet up."

I direct the invitation at Oikawa specifically, pulling out a little white card from my wallet and handing it to him even though you hold your hand out. He takes my phone from my hand and you peek over him to look, your eyes opening wide as you look with him.

"So do you have like, a book of designs I can pick from?" He hands my phone back to me, a confused look on his face. I try to keep my eyes on him but the way you continue to look over me makes me nervous, my palms sweaty as I shove them in my pockets.

"Uh, not really. I'm working at a shop in town right now for a couple clients, but if you want to show me something we can talk about it."

"Yeah, man, I'll give you a call later this week. Where are you staying?" Your eyes meet mine again, and as much as every nerve in my body aches to turn to you, I keep everything pointed at Oikawa, even shifting my stance a bit so I'm facing him more than you.

"I have my own place downtown. I've been all over the place the past few years but I decided to settle down here for now." I answer, feeling self conscious.

"That's so cool, Suga. I still stay with my parents during off season." He laughs too hard at his own observation, and I'm sure if he knew 'my own place' was a single room with a mattress on the floor and a bathroom without a door he wouldn't find his situation so ironically funny.

There's a few beats of silence between the three of us and I'm tempted to ask you what you've been up to, and despite your expression seeming to beg me to say the words 'How have you been?', I know better than to test those waters and keep my mouth shut.

"Well it was great to see you, man. I'll hit you up later this week and maybe both of us will get something, right babe?" He elbows you playfully in the ribs and you roll your eyes as you snort, twirling a key ring between your fingers. I realize that you're the designated driver, and I'm probably looking just as wasted as Oikawa. You slide your hand down to his, intertwining your fingers together as you pull him away.

"Guess it's time to get going," he smiles at me, shining white teeth as you two walk away. "See you around, man!"

He wraps his arm around you as you leave out the front door, but before it shuts you turn your head around, our eyes locking. Time indefinitely stops, both of us frozen in the split second before the door closes and you're gone again. I wonder if another five years will pass before we're somehow brought together again, or if our meeting was just a hallucination, the result of a bad joint and too much vodka.

-

I wake up the next morning in the front seat of my car, my muscles stiff and sore, a pounding in my head only intensified by the summer sun pouring in through the open windows. I stretch out as much as I can before I drive myself home, grateful I didn't have any clients today.

I chalk up meeting with Oikawa and (y/n) to some sort of strange trip, remembering the many times she'd appeared before me in a drug-induced haze. Once I'm back to my apartment I drink an entire bottle of water in one go, then plop onto my unmade mattress and fall back asleep.

When I wake up again it's nearly three in the afternoon and my room is so hot I'm surprised the paint isn't melting off the walls. I reluctantly decide to shut the windows and crank up my old air conditioner, it's loud whirring sound more like white noise at this point. As the room slowly cools down, I sit on my mattress and check my phone; I have a new follower on Instagram who's liked just about every single one of my posts and commented on at least half. He's left me two text messages as well, with way too many emojis for my taste. I reply, thanking Oikawa for his compliments and telling him to look through my page for ideas for himself. I ignore his question about how I know (y/n), not interested in reliving that arc of my life over again. He replies almost immediately, my eyes rolling on their own. He says I'm awesome for the thousandth time, saying that he'll convince (y/n) to get a tattoo as well. I don't reply, tossing my phone aside as I think about whether I should go eat something or smoke. As I'm sitting in the silence (save for the air conditioner) I realize I absolutely reek of hangover and weed, and decide on taking a shower before anything.

Once I scrub off the previous night and get dressed, it seems like a good day to spend in the air conditioned laundromat across town, drawing quietly in my sketchbook as I ritualistically wash everything I own in one go. I shove everything- clothes, sheets, pillows, and anything else I figure can go in an industrial size washing machine, into a giant black trash bag, proceeding to shove that into the backseat of my car. I crank the windows down and feel at ease, the heat of the summer sticking to me in a strangely comfortable way.

It's past seven in the evening by the time all of my clothes, sheets, etc. are nicely folded in the backseat of my car, hunger tearing through my stomach at this point. The fridge at home is pathetic; a six pack (currently a three pack) of beer, a bottle of ketchup, take out that I have no memory of getting, with other odds and ends that are hopeless to combine into a meal.

I drive around aimlessly for a bit as the sun begins to kiss the horizon, a clear sliver of the moon rising slowly. I pull over by a large, open field, a few other cars parked to watch the sunset. The green in the grass is flooded gold, June wind blowing softly against my semi flushed cheeks. It's calm, away from the bustle of the town and the people and the piling bills.

Darkness suddenly overcomes the entire town once the sun sets, the warmth turning thick and soupy as I grab take out on the way home. I put my clothes away in my dresser and settle for just placing my sheets in a folded pile on top of my mattress instead of attempting to make my bed. I crank the air conditioning back up and sit in the old olive green arm chair, draping my legs over the armrests as I click on the television, mindlessly flipping through channels as I ate like an animal, the food absorbing whatever alcohol was left in my system. I'm full and content for the moment being, ready for the week to begin again in the morning despite a slight emptiness that has sat in the pit of my chest for a while now.

As I stand to toss away the styrofoam take out container and take the trash out, a knock comes at my door. I figure it's one of my neighbors from the building asking to borrow something, or one of the kids from down the street who, despite my consistent refusal, asking to buy weed off of me. I take the trash with me as I open the door, looking up at the figure standing before me.

She's here, in front of me, and I'm not on drugs. She smells clean and I'm glad I decided to act on the urge to wash everything I own today as she looks me up and down, her gaze unreadable. I crease my eyebrows, looking around her for Oikawa.

"Uh," I stammer, confusion as well as absolute terror taking over me. "What are you doing here?"

She returns my perplexed expression, remaining in the doorway. She seems a bit nervous, picking at the sides of her fingernails as she waits for me to invite her in, which I know I really should not do.

"Is that all you have to say to me?" She asks, the softness of her voice betraying her actual words.

"Is there something else I should know about?" I place the trash bag on the floor next to me, determined to hold my ground.

"Koushi," she looks away from me. "I really thought you'd want to talk to me after everything. It's been fi-"

"Five years, I know," I interrupt. "Listen, (y/n), I was really convinced that when I saw you last night I had just smoked a weird joint. I want to talk to you but I think we both know there isn't much to say at this point."

A cold silence settles over us and I know that wasn't the answer she came here for, but it's the only thing I can think of worth saying. An enormous part of me of course wants her back but there's a strange and intangible difference between us now that makes me just want to take the trash out and go to bed.

"You're kidding me," she snorts, leaning against the doorframe. "There isn't much to say. I can think of something- fuck you."

"Oh my god," I run a hand through my hair, taking a conscious effort not to roll my eyes in front of her. "(Y/n), it's been five years. I am not the same person you remember and I doubt you are either. Us even meeting again is just a train wreck waiting to happen."

"How can you say that after everything? I came here-"

"For what? An apology? An apology for how I acted when I was barely eighteen years old and I acted like an asshole?"

"Don't try to make some sort of excuse for everything you did."

"I'm not making an excuse but Jesus Christ, (y/n), it's done. I'm not gonna spend my whole life feeling guilty over a six month relationship."

Both our voices are raised at this point and I feel the tension growing, knowing fully well the side she's trying to pull out of me. Her expression is smug, defiant like a child who knows their misbehaving.

"How can you not even say you're sorry? I don't even deserve that?" She's venomous, a predator disguising themselves as prey.

"Oh my god," I run my hands down my face and look up at the ceiling, taking a deep breath. "What do you want, (y/n)? Do you want me to cry and get down on my knees and beg you to take me back? Do you want me to show you how much I've changed and win your fucking heart back?"

"Shut up, Koushi," her voice is low, a warning.

"No, tell me, (y/n)," I throw my hands up dramatically, exaggerating my motions. "Tell me, what is it that you came knocking at my door for? Did you want me to make a fool of myself for you? Did you think I'd be that pathetic?"

"Shut up, Koushi." She looks me in the eyes, more of a threat than a warning now.

"No," I'm pissed. I'm pissed she came here thinking I'd been waiting for half a decade to open the door and see her, waiting to read her every love letter she thought I'd saved. "Why are you here, (y/n)? Just say it. Tell me what you want and it's yours."

"Shut up, Koushi!" She shouts, her hands balled into fists. "Will you just shut up? I'm not the one who fucked up, you are! So just shut up!"

"Fine! Great! Tell me what you want then!" I say the words slow and clear, my patience wearing paper thin.

"I came here to give you another chance! I came here because you seem like you really got yourself together and I thought maybe you'd changed but clearly you're worse than ever!"

"Oh, fuck you," I spit. "Thank you so much for the second chance but I'll pass. You're the one who came crawling to my door, for the record."

"What is wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with you? Coming to my house and expecting me to fall apart for you like I did a thousand times? Who the hell do you think you are?"

"I think I'm someone who at least deserves an apology," she says quietly, looking almost defeated.

"Like the ones I left on your voicemail for almost two years? Or the ones in the letters I gave to Asahi and got the shit kicked out of me for? Oh, or the ones I wrote in both my suicide notes? Fuck off." And with that I slam the door shut, locking it. She bangs on the door for a while, demanding me to open it but after a couple minutes I hear her peel out, even over the air conditioner. I don't even bother to turn the television off before falling to my mattress, throwing one of the folded sheets over me and tossing the rest aside. A dark, dreamless sleep settles over me as the sounds of the TV and air conditioner lull me away from the explosion that was (y/n) showing up at my door.


	2. 02

Days pass by without (y/n) knocking on my door and even on the hot nights when I'm wondering if I was too harsh, I feel comfortable in her absence. Our meeting was a slip up in the grand scheme of things, a moment that's better left forgotten. I go back to the usual routine: working in the local tattoo shop on the clients who come to see me, going home, getting high, and going to sleep. The long summer days somehow make it seem more monotonous than usual though, something gnawing at my thoughts.

I'm surprised to get a call from Oikawa on one Sunday night, insisting he come over to show me what he wants tattooed. I agree, assuming (y/n) will sit the visit out and taking the opportunity to earn some extra cash.

He arrives, knocking loudly on the door. Thankfully my hunch about (y/n) was right, as I invite him inside alone.

"What's up, man?" He speaks, poking around my single room. "How have you been since high school?"

"Uh, good." I answer, the small talk making me a bit uneasy. I sit down on the couch, putting the TV on mute as he plops down next to me. "Just working a lot now, you know? What about you?"

"Oh, it's been pretty good. Going pro was the best decision I ever made," He says, adjusting his hair behind his ear. "Why'd you quit volleyball? You were one of the better setters in our district. If Kageyama hadn't come to your school you would've been the star player."

"As if," I snort, volleyball seeming incredibly distant. "I was average at best. Besides, I went to college for like, not even two months. It wasn't really a big thing for me once I finished school, I guess."

"Yeah," he chuckles, a striking contrast between his behavior now and when we met at the party. "It's not a life thing for everyone. I can say I never saw you getting tattooed like you are though, Suga. It's like you're not even the same kid I saw on the other side of the net."

"I wouldn't say I'm the same either." I fake laugh, bored of talking about volleyball and high school and the past.

"So," I breathe, turning to look at him. "What were you thinking about getting? Do you have any pictures to show-"

"One second, Suga," he interrupts, a small smirk playing on his lips. "We need to talk about something." I narrow my eyes at him, my body tensing in preparation, waiting for the first punch to be thrown.

"What's that?" I ask suspiciously.

"I think you know," he smiles, his eyes almost mischievous as they burn into me.

"I really don't."

"How do you and (y/n) know each other?" He phrases the question slow and careful, making sure I understand exactly where he is coming from.

The question drops like a pin in a silent hall, loud and quiet at the same time. I knew Oikawa was smart, but I didn't expect him to be so blunt. He gauges my reaction as he adjusts his position on the couch, his arm draping across the back, almost touching the back of my neck.

"She's never told you?" I point the blame right at her, unashamed to save my own ass.

"You're a surprisingly mysterious figure that she refuses to talk about. The times I've asked about you since that party have led to her leaving without a word. Don't lie to me, Suga."

"I don't care if you know," I look him in the eye, leaning back a bit into the sofa. "We dated for a little while a very long time ago. Our breakup was really bad; I actually hadn't seen her since then until the party."

"I figured you two were exes. How long ago did you guys date?"

"Five years ago."

"Are you kidding me?" He scrunches his face in confusion and annoyance, leaning into me a bit. "Five years? And she reacts like that when I ask about you? What the hell happened?"

"I cheated on her." I reply bluntly, knowing that lying didn't really serve any purpose at this point.

"You? Cheating on someone?" He's almost smirking as he gives me a look of disbelief. "I didn't have you pinned down as someone who'd cheat on a girl. You're more like the high school sweetheart kind of guy, aren't you?"

"Obviously not," I scoff. "I was eighteen and stupid. More stuff happened but it's in the past now. I've said what I have to say about it to her and that's the end of it."

"Shit," he raises his eyebrows. "You're cold, Suga."

"No I'm not," I defend, a little bitter. "I know what I did was wrong and I've apologized a thousand times for it. (Y/n) just wants me to feel guilty for the rest of my life and I'm not giving it to her."

"You said you hadn't seen her until that party?" He fires back quickly, catching that I was conveniently leaving out her visit the other day. I decide that I don't really care about whatever story she's weaved for Oikawa; she's the one who lied in the first place.

"Yeah. She came over the other day and we got in a fight, I guess."

"Did you now?" He gives me a grin, the kind a parent gives when they find out their kid misbehaved at school. I stifle a laugh, finding a sort of dark amusement in all this.

"We did," I answer. "She was mad I didn't have a ten page apology ready when she knocked on my door."

"Wow," he breathes. "Can I ask you another question? You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"Uh, sure."

Just as his lips form his question, a loud ringing interrupts us. He raises his phone to his ear, giving me a smirk as he remains seated on the couch next to me.

"Hey, (y/n)," He gives me a nod that begs me to listen in as he leans close. "What's up?"

"Where are you?" I hear her on the other line, her voice sounding the same as it always has. I feel dirty listening in and pull away, putting distance between us.

"I'm at Suga's house actually. I was showing him the pictures of the tattoos I liked, the ones I showed you yesterday." There's the pause of her response, keeping me on edge.

"Mm," he mumbles, rolling his eyes at me. "Yeah. He said he'd be happy to do one for you too. Why don't you stop by now? You know where his place is, don't you?"

He gives me the devil's grin as he finishes his last question to her, stifling a laugh.

"What? You do know where his place is though, right?" I get the sense that his mischievous trap he set is snowballing into an argument that I'd rather not be in the middle of.

"Stop lying, (y/n)!" He practically laughs. "You're caught and you know it. Just give it up!"

His condescending confidence becomes frustration. He sits up from my couch without a word or a glance toward me, leaving my apartment and slamming the door behind him. Despite the wall between us I still hear his half of their argument, his voice bitter and spiteful, intentionally trying to leave a wound. My heart pounds beneath my chest, feeling my pulse throughout my entire body. My fingertips are electrified, everything feeling like some sort of drug induced dream as my senses go on overload. The yelling outside my door stops, ending with a loud thud against the wall, followed by a louder, "Fuck!"

Oikawa enters my apartment again, holding his right hand in his left, the skin split across his first two knuckles.

"Sorry about that," he gives me a look that tells me to pretend the last five minutes never happened; I stand and grab a washcloth from the drawer next to the sink, soaking it in warm water and ringing it out before handing it to him. He just nods, sitting back on the couch. I rifle through my bathroom cabinet for a band aid but all I can find is a thousand gauze pads and an old ace bandage.

"I don't have any band aids," I come back out, Oikawa leaning his head over the back of the couch, giving me a small smile.

"That's okay," he says quietly, looking more calm than he should. "It's not really bleeding anymore." He reveals his hand, deep purple and red across his knuckles. We're quiet for a while and I wonder what he's still doing here, afraid that (y/n) could show up any moment to tear us both apart.

"Sugawara," he breaks the silence, keeping his gaze on the television, which is on mute. "I saw your old friend the other day. The really tall one."

"Asahi?"

"That's his name, yeah. He was at (y/n)'s place when I came over. He left pretty quick once I showed up, though," he scoffed. "Should I be worried about him?"

"Worried about him how?"

"You know," he looks over at me finally, his eyes flat despite the smirk on his lips. "Do they have history like you two have history?" I pause and remember Asahi, guilt twinged with nostalgia. We've seen each other a handful of times since school ended, years ago now, but nothing as volatile as back then.

"I don't know. I haven't been close with him since I was close with (y/n)," I reply, looking down at my hands as I trace her scar back and forth. "I'm not really friends with anyone I used to be."

"Oh," he looks away, uncomfortable. "That sucks."

"I made my choices and they made theirs. It is what it is, I guess."

"I suppose that's true," he nods. "Who do you hang around with now? I'm sure you've met a lot of cool people doing tattoos."

"Uh...," I'm caught off guard by the question, nothing coming up in the department of friends as I think about it for far too long. Friends? Now? I draw a complete blank. "I've met a lot of interesting people the past couple years. I've moved a lot though, so I guess I don't exactly hang around with anyone for too long."

"Like a drifter," he chuckles, hopefully not dwelling on how I danced around the fact that I'm more of a loner than a drifter. "That's pretty cool. How long are you gonna be around here for?"

"I'm probably going to leave before the fall comes. I'll be done with all my clients by September, so there won't be much keeping me here."

We sit in the quiet again, a strange weight sitting on my chest now. I hope Oikawa decides to leave soon, his presence and conversation overwhelming me.

"Well, I guess I've interrogated you enough for now," he stands, walking over to the sink and rinsing out the washcloth, leaving it to dry over the counter. I stand too, relieved to see him out so I can smoke a joint and go to bed.

"Thanks for being honest with me, Suga. I don't know what happened between you and (y/n) but I'm sure it's as hard for you to talk about as it is for her," he extends his hand to shake, but pulls me into a hug instead. He slaps me on the back before pulling away, smiling at me. "Next time we'll really go through with the tattoo, I swear. See you around, Suga."

"See you," I fake a smile as he exits, a sigh of relief falling from my lips once I close the door shut. Thoughts of the past swirl around like paint in my head and I quickly roll a joint, plopping down on the couch and taking a long hit, letting the room get thick with the smoke before getting up to open the window and turning off the air conditioner. I switch the fan on, the night air not as brutal as I expected and decide to pull up one of my two table chairs, letting the breeze cool me off. I watch people pass by, careful not to let anyone walking or driving past see the joint itself. Once I'm comfortably numb, I leave the window open and lay down on the couch, clicking the volume back on the television. A show plays but my mind is elsewhere, floating far away from (y/n) and Oikawa and high school as I drift off to sleep.

-

He's here. She's here. Another he is here. I'm on the ground, wind knocked from my lungs, the three of them looking down at me as I croak for air. Their features aren't clear but I know it's them, here to tell me how I ruined them, how nothing I ever do will be enough to fix things. The second man pulls me up by the collar of my shirt (it's his shirt I'm wearing), our faces inches apart. As he cocks his fist back he suddenly leans in close and kisses me on the lips, cold and dry. He barely pulls away as he punches me, sending me to the ground again, except this time the ground is gone and I'm falling, and they're all falling with me. It's bright and as I turn my head the man who just punched me is now rolling a joint, and once he takes a hit he passes it to (y/n), who then passes it to Daichi and in turn to me. We're infinitely falling and passing the joint, but I'm not getting high. I refuse it when Daichi offers it to me again, and instead of just passing it to (y/n) he pulls my arm like a ripcord, rubbing the burnt end of the joint into my bare skin. I try to scream but no sound comes out and they all go on as if nothing is happening, everyone except me blissfully numb.

The burn on my arm opens up and now I'm standing outside Daichi's house, and I'm watching my eighteen-year-old self get kicked down in front of his door. (Y/n) pulls into the driveway and even though I see her run to the scene, she's also standing next to me. She's the right age though, and we're both watching our younger selves play out the scene I've relived thousands of times before. She reaches for my hand but suddenly I'm in New York again and I can hear her calling out for me in the busy streets. I push through the seemingly endless crowd of faceless shadows, only to run into him. He caresses the side of my cheek with his hand, burning me. I don't pull away though, not even flinching as he rubs his thumb across my skin, an empty expression painting his face. He says my name but the sound doesn't come out; all I can hear is (y/n), her panicked voice screaming out to me. I can't move though, frozen as his hand moves down the side of my neck to my chest, resting over my heart. It burns hotter here, the pain overwhelming but I don't move. Hotter, hotter, his shirt that I'm still wearing has a hole in it from the heat, my skin is puckering up in the outline of his hand. Just when I think I might be able to escape from him, I wake up.


End file.
